


Someday Soon You'll Be On Fire

by apollos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluffy Angst, M/M, Scraps, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4441583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollos/pseuds/apollos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And you'll ask me for a glass of water and I'll say no, no, no. Scrap fics, mostly Destiel in nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Supernatural Songfic Collection Uno (of Uno)

**Author's Note:**

> i was in the supernatural fandom for like 5 minutes but i wrote some fic i'm kinda proud of so, like. enjoy?

**black clouds**

Sam puts a hand on Dean’s arm as he’s holding the knife, the tip pressing into the demon’s chest. “We have them tied up, Dean. Maybe we should just exorcise this one.”

“They could be back.”

“Then we’ll exorcise them again. Come on, they haven’t even killed anybody. Maybe we should let this one live.” Sam is pleading; Dean is scowling. Dean yanks away from Sam’s grip and gives him the knife.

“Do whatever you have to do,” he says, and he opens his mouth to provide a quip that references some famous do-gooder from an old television show or movie, but he decides against it. He walks out of the room and raises his arms, putting his hand behind his head. He’s done, he’s so done, he walks into the kitchen and grabs a beer from the fridge that he downs in a few minutes.

He thinks he hears a flurry of wings—a sound that used to be his absolute favorite on Earth—but when he looks to his side there’s no friendly angel to perch on his shoulder, touch his face and tell him it’ll all be okay. Of course there’s not, because the goddamned friendly angel _betrayed_ him. He pulls another beer from the fridge. There’s the sound of an exorcism and black smoke barrels into the room, towards the kitchen window, hanging over Dean’s head momentarily, like clouds.

“Fucker,” Dean says, to the demon, and as if it is offended it leaves through the window in a huff.

Sam comes into the room next, and Dean wants to offer him a similar insult and watch him go the same way, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, Sam asks, “Dude, are you okay?”

“Course,” Dean says. “You exorcised it,” he says, jabbing a thumb through the window.

“Sometimes I get sick of killing everything we lay our eyes on,” Sam says, and it feels pointed—not pointed, jagged, like anyway Dean can touch the statement would hurt. But everything’s felt that way lately.

**one minute more**

“You make a good human,” Dean says, dragging a finger down Cas’s chest in the hotel room.

“Not really,” Cas says, and he sighs with his eyes closed. “It’s not what I thought it would be, you know. A lot less…glamorous, maybe.”

Dean rolls on his back. “Well,” he says. He doesn’t have a rebuttal. “That’s pretty true.”

“To be frank,” Cas says, and Dean laughs a little, because it sounds like the Cas he knows and loves so much it makes him feel like he’s four years back fighting the apocalypse and not walking an Earth littered with scattered angels. “I do not know how you and Sam do it. It’s very—cumbersome.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Dean assures him, turning his head. “You’ll go back to work in the morning and you’ll just, you know, do it. You’ll save up enough money for an apartment, then a house, probably find some girl to marry and pop out little mini-Cas’s—”

Cas cuts him off with a literal hand to the mouth. He props himself up on his elbow. “Dean,” he says, with his serious unblinking expression, “where are you in all of this?”

“Dead, probably.” He says it as a joke with a smile, but Cas does not return the favor. He only drops his head down to Dean and kisses him like he could kiss it all away.

**desire lines**

“You ever feel like this isn’t really you?”

They’re sitting on the hood of the Impala, parked on a cliff overlooking a beautiful lake. Sam looks to Dean. “No,” he says, furrowing his eyebrows. “I’m pretty, you know, confident in who I am. A freak and a jerk, but hey, that’s me.”

Dean shakes his head, holding his beer between his knee. “It’s nothing,” he says, and he laughs.

In reality he feels like he’s watching himself through a camera lens, like this isn’t his life that he’s living, and he’s sort of felt this way all his life. There’s been exceptions—the first one that comes to mind if one of his earliest memories, a Sam in diapers waddling towards him for the first time, and Dean remembers reaching out his arms. Their father wasn’t even there. But the second memory that comes to mind is weightier, it’s of being beat up by Cas in the alleyway, all fists and furies and faces far too close together. He deserved that, he’ll drink to that, but he doesn’t want that to happen again. (It will, and then again, and again, and Dean should be used to that, by now, but he’s not and he never will be.)

“You sure?” Sam pulls him from his thoughts, and Dean nods.

“We got a werewolf to track, come on,” Dean says. He hops off the hood of the Impala and goes to the driver’s seat door, ripping it open with one hand as he tosses his beer behind him with the other. All he can feel, though, is Cas’s hands pounding into his jaw, his eyes, his nose.

**one kiss don’t make a summer**

Dean can’t count the number of girls he’s kissed if he has five sets of fingers and toes to count them on. And not a single goddamned one have meant a single them to him.

Maybe that’s not true. Cassie was sort of special, but in hindsight he knows he was young and needy, putting a misplaced wont of affection her way. Then there was Lisa, but that was lust gone rampant, and the real appeal of her was that she was a packaged deal, coming with a kid that he already loved and loved him. Beyond that, well—he felt more sisterly towards Jo than anything, and everybody else is just a nameless face that he shoved his lips against.

The fling, the affair, the tryst, that gets to him— _the one that got away_ —is the single kiss he shares with Cas before he goes haywire, stabs him in the back almost literally. Nobody knows about but Dean, and he’s expecting that Cas forgot about it, but: it was in the middle of the summer and they were working a case in California, all sun and beaches and brutal murders with blood spilling from the bodies, and they were in an argument about something, and it was a mutual thing, their faces were so close it was hard to avoid pressing their lips together. There was a second of contact and then Cas was gone, fucking angel powers.

**someday soon**

Cas is a ring of holy fire at Dean’s hand and Dean is saying, “Come on, Cas, don’t be a dick, don’t be like all the other angels,” and Cas is saying, “Dean, I am not like the other angels, I am trying to do the right thing,” and Sam has left the room because he can’t take this melodramatic shit, and Dean is pleading with Cas via eye contact and Cas is unblinking, still as stone. The ring of holy fire burns, flames licking their ways up to obscure parts of Cas’s body from Dean’s view.

 “Let it out and maybe I will try to reason with you,” Cas says.

“Liar,” Dean spits. “Fuckin’ liar and a hypocrite, goddamit Cas, I needed someone—”

“You have someone,” Cas says. “You have me. I am right here.”

“There’s a ring of holy fire between us. You might as well be a million fuckin’ miles away.”

 


	2. Is There Somebody That Can Watch You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> go look the the 1975 song up on youtube. or not. it's your choice.

Sleep has never come easy for Dean. Well, that’s not  _entirely_  true—sleep while sober or without having sex beforehand has never come easy for Dean. But he’s working a job right now and he can see Sam sleeping in the other bed, ruling out both of those options, and so Dean lays flat on his back and stares at the ceiling, pissed. He’s been awake in the dark for so long that his eyes have adjusted, allowing him to see the hotel room almost perfectly, like somebody has just turned the saturation down instead of the lights off. He’s never been afraid of the dark, but it  _is_  a little comforting to be able to see everything.

He rolls on his slide, squeezes his eyes shut and curls into a fetal position. That doesn’t work, so he tries laying on his stomach with his nose pressing into the mattress, but that’s just uncomfortable. He counts sheep, he remembers his childhood, he devises stories, he imagines killing some monster and feeling proud of himself, but none of that helps, and he once more ends up on his back, staring at the ceiling. “Please, God,” he pleas, though he knows that  _that_ particular course of action is futile and stupid. “Just let me fucking  _sleep_.”

He does not fall asleep, but there is a faint rustling sound to his left. He grabs the gun on the bedside table and jerks his head in disbelief, but he only sees Cas standing by his bed, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Cas, what the hell?” Dean sputters, putting the gun back and rising to a sitting position. “What’s going on, is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Cas says.

“Well….then why are you here? I told you, man, humans have to sleep.” Dean smiles and laughs in a deprecating way, runs a hand over his hair. “I’m really tired,” he adds, when Cas doesn’t respond.

“That’s why I’m here,” Cas says. “I heard your prayers.”

“I didn’t pray to you, though,” Dean says, and he’s confused for a second before he figures it out. “Oh, you heard me asking God to let me sleep. That’s real nice. Why’s God got you answering his phone?”

“I’m not answering God’s phone,” Cas says, furrowing his eyebrows even harder, which Dean can now see with his new night vision. “Sometimes when you and Sam are on hard jobs I keep a closer watch on you, that’s all.”

“Oh, that’s real sweet,” Dean says. He lays back down on the bed, this conversation wearing him out. “Where were you last week when that thing had Sam by the balls, huh?”

“That wasn’t a hard job,” Cas says, like’s that obvious, and Dean laughs, because of course it is.

“Look, this has been a real nice chat and all, but I’ve got to sleep,” Dean says. He throws his forearm over his eyes, as if to emphasize this point.

“I  _said_ ,” Cas says, and it sounds like it’s through gritted teeth to Dean, “that’s why I’m here.”

Dean hears more rustling, the creak of a cheap mattress, and then he  _feels_ a presence in the bed beside him. He throws his forearm off his face and turns his head to see Cas very close in bed beside him, which is not something he has never thought of before, nope, not at all.

“Cas, the hell!” Dean whispers, suddenly feeling the need to not wake Sam. “This isn’t appropriate, dude.”

Cas has this stupid innocent expression on his dumb face because he’s an angel that doesn’t understand human social norms, and it’s endearing, a sort of smooth blank slate that all of Dean’s weirdness and general fucked-up-ness can slide off of. “I’ve heard that this sort of thing can help humans sleep,” Cas says, the look on his face embodied in his voice.

“Spooning?” Dean asks, though they’re not in a spooning position, no part of their bodies touching and their noses almost touching. Dean tries not to think about his nerves are tickling with the desire to connect with Cas’s.

“I’m not familiar with that term,” Cas says, and Dean mutters  _never mind_. “Sometimes humans can get lonely when they try to sleep and having another body in the bed can be a comfort. I would suggest Sam, but I feel that having somebody of that size in the same bed as you could be uncomfortable. My vessel has a smaller figure than Sam does.”

Dean chuckles, because it’s true, and rolls his head back so he’s looking up. “There’s no way I’m going to get you to leave, is there,” he says, and he’s starting to think this is some weird-ass angel come-on thing. Human chicks have done stranger, with far less legitimacy, to get into Dean’s bed before.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Cas says, and Dean can detect something that almost sounds like humor in his voice.

They settle into a silence, laying on their backs and looking at the ceiling together. Dean feels calm—ridiculous, yes, but also calm—with Cas beside him, but his consciousness of Cas beside him is also making it hard to sleep. Dean moves his hand off his stomach and it brushes against Cas’s over the sheet, which makes him all the more aware. His frustration peaks and he flumps over on his side, whisper-shouts Cas’s name into his ear.

“What?” Cas asks, not moving his head.

“Cas, why are you really here?” Dean says, still whispering. “What’s going on? Something’s gotta be wrong, angels don’t just come visit me in the middle of the night to play babysitter.”

“You’re not a baby,” Cas says, turning his head. “I told you, Dean. I’m just here to help you sleep out of concern for your wellbeing. This job is important and will most likely get difficult. It is already three in the morning. Humans need their sleep.” Dean can once again detect that almost-humor in Cas’s last statement.

“A sack of potatoes with some angel grace inside of it in the bed next to me isn’t helping me sleep, Cas,” Dean says, and maybe it’s not his best analogy, but he’s yawning, feeling closer to sleep than he has in a long time.

“Would you like me to be more dynamic?” Cas asks, sincere.

“The hell does that mean?” Dean asks. He’s imaging a fistfight or violent anal sex, not quite sure which one he’d prefer. Cas does not answer him with words, but instead by reaching his arms out and pulling Dean to his chest. Dean ends up with his nose and mouth buried in Cas’s collar, which means that he can smell Cas’s skin. He always sort of expected Cas to smell bad—he’s not sure if he understands the concept of showers—but he doesn’t. He smells nice—heavenly, maybe, if Dean was in the mood to be that sort of funny, definitely unearthly—in a way that Dean doesn’t have words for. Sunshine, he thinks. Happiness. It’s stupid, and it’s definitely gay, and it has to be the angel thing that’s making him smell this way, but it’s three in the morning and Dean needs to sleep and Cas’s slinging one of his legs over Dean’s and Dean has always secretly preferred being the little spoon.

“Is this better?” Cas asks.

“If I could breathe, maybe,” Dean says into the fabric of Cas’s shirt. Cas loosens his grip so Dean can become more comfortable and Dean does, resting his forehead in the place where the lower half of his face just was instead, giving him room to breathe. Cas’s hands are static on Dean’s lower back, but they’re warm, and they’re there. “Yeah, this is nice, Cas. Weird, yeah, and gay as hell, so let’s not mention this to anybody, but—” and Dean falls asleep.

When he wakes in the morning Cas is gone, of course, and Sam is in the shower. There’s no time for the both of them to take one, a call reporting another death coming in on Dean’s cell phone first thing, and when they’re in the Impala on their way to the crime scene, Sam makes a face at Dean and says, “Dude, you smell weird.”

 


End file.
